Renascentia
by SiMMachine
Summary: But I was dead, he'd thought, over and over. And the funny thing was that he hadn't understood what "dead" meant, before that.
1. 0

Renascentia

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead. I own nothing but the plotline of this story, and a spattering of original characters. **

* * *

0.

It first happened when Daryl was around four years old. His father had been roaring mad over one thing or another—forty years later and that was the one thing he'd never been able to remember, despite remembering every little thing about his life with crystal clarity—and his Momma hadn't been there to soothe him, instead biding her time singing Daryl a lullaby, bless her. She had always been singing that damn song to him more than any of the others she dug up from her childhood in Louisiana.

She'd been sobbing through the melody that day, flinching when his curious fingertips danced along the edges of the day old bruise painting her cheek an angry violet hue. Her spindly fingers were running though his hair as she rocked him back and forth, like he needed it. Like he was the one who was wracked with hysterical little sobs. He'd just been confused. Why wasn't she doing anything?

He wished that he'd known then and there that something bad was going to happen. There was never a time when Momma didn't rush to fulfil Daddy's whims.

Daddy had burst into his and Merle's room, the door slamming into the wall with so much force that Momma jumped. The house's thin walls had vibrated rhythmically, as if in time with his Momma's pulse.

"I wanna sing, too!" He bellowed drunkenly. He stared down at the bottle of cheap beer cradled in his meaty hand for a beat, and with a grunt and a shrug, he threw it against the wall. It shattered, and Momma had jumped yet again, but she hadn't stopped rocking him. And somehow, someway, as drunk as he'd obviously been, his Daddy knew the words to that lullaby, and he'd urged his mother to sing along with him.

Their voices had risen in shaky harmony, then. And Daryl had sat quietly in his Momma's arms, his face buried in the crook of her neck, where she'd gently but firmly trapped him, her hand splayed on the back of his head. In one ear, he heard her thundering pulse, and in the other, their haunting voices, his Daddy's low and husky, his Momma's high and trilling.

Her heartbeat had been taking a steady decline in the silence after their singing tapered off, and her muscles had relaxed, though she still wouldn't let him lift his head.

Finally, his Daddy had rumbled, "Gimme the boy."

_(He was always "the boy" or "boy"—never "Daryl" unless he was really really mad so maybe—)_

"No," Was his Momma's rapid-fire response.

"Let me hold 'im."

"No, Will."

"Let me hold my son."

And still, Daddy sounded calm. He should have realized that that was more dangerous. There was no way he could have, because he'd only been four, but he still wished, sometimes, that he'd known better so he'd have had a few more years to prepare for—

He'd jerked away from his Momma, stumbling at her chocking sob of alarm, right into his Daddy's open arms. His Daddy had chuckled humorlessly as he scooped him up, held him underneath his arms and looked him over. His eyes had been glazed and bloodshot, his pupils dilated, his breath stinking of alcohol.

"Look at you, boy. Look at you." He'd smiled at him.

He'd thought that Daddy was going to hug him. Maybe pull him in and plant petal soft kisses all along his hairline like his Momma did every morning, cooing lazy endearments at him, falling in and out of English and Cajun French.

But Daddy had put him on the floor after a minute of looking him over, real gentle like, and kneeled beside him, hands still poised underneath his arms, like maybe he was gonna tickle him.

Instead, he'd wound his fingers around his neck and squeezed. He'd done it one-handed, using the other to push his Momma away. She'd been crying and hollering, kicking and scratching at him until she drew blood. It still hadn't stopped him—he'd been staring into Daryl's eyes the whole time, curiosity and something like a challenge in his own cold grey ones. Daryl hadn't done anything, knew better than to fight it by then.

Soon, his vision blurred with tears and began to spot with black around the edges. It felt as though his throat had been cut off from the rest of his body.

His Momma's distressed howling became far away. The world soon went black.

* * *

He didn't remember how long he'd been under the first day, but when he woke up, the first thing he'd heard was his Momma singing that damn song to him, eyes screwed shut as she rocked him back and forth, his body limp and unnaturally stiff in her arms.

"Momma," He'd said, and she'd jumped, quickly going right back to sobbing. She held him tight against her heaving chest.

"My baby—oh my God, I thought he—he… even after you stopped—he kept on and he did it for so long and... he left and I checked and you weren't—your heart—Oh, God. Daryl. Daryl. I thought you were dead."

And then she'd kept on sobbing and babbling into his neck. His skin tingled from the warm shock of her tears.

He remembered being confused, wanting to tell her that he had been dead, that he'd been wondering around in the dark and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move—

But all he'd said was, "Momma." Again and again. She'd laughed and hugged him close.

_But I was dead, _he'd thought, over and over. And the funny thing was that he hadn't understood what "dead" meant, before that.

* * *

After that, as the years passed, he'd gotten knowledge. It hadn't been a grand map of knowledge, but a vague one, that only became slightly easier to understand when some outside force was there to blow the age-old dust off of it so he could interpret it in short, erratic bursts.

The knowledge came to him sometimes when he watched people with his Momma, sitting in her lap on their front porch as she knitted expertly in front of him (He could barely escape her after It happened, but he hadn't minded, not really). He quickly learned how to knit this way, because she was loathe to leave him alone and he honestly didn't want to be left alone. So he people watched and he knitted, giggling with his Momma as he forgot again and again just how strong her knitting stiches were when he tried to undo them and create his own shaky, amateurish ones, the shitty ones that his Momma proudly crowed over, the ones that quickly became loose when they were pulled on too hard.

If he looked at someone for too long, memories from who they used to be before came to him in flashes. He lived them like they were his own. They came faster and more vivid in the wake of physical contact, so aside from his Momma and Merle, he avoided touch like it was a disease, and took care to look at the ground instead of directly at others. The strong pull of his childish curiosity often overtook his silent, stubborn battle, however. There was a time when he'd stared at a woman in the corner store so long and so hard that he'd unnerved her right into a fit of tears. Once, he hadn't even felt the little girl at the playground slapping fearfully at his hands, wrapped tight around her wrist as he relived the life she'd lived before, an endless cycle of pain and disappointment as she was forced into the life of a refugee, persecuted wherever she went, simply because of the color of her skin. His Momma had to pull him away, frantic and embarrassed, and after that, he'd never been taken down to the playground again.

The old Bloom couple could steal each other's words right from their mouths. They'd been together before, before they were the Blooms, when they hadn't spoken English but some muffled, obsolete langue that he couldn't make out—though it was not unlike the bits and pieces of Cajun French his Momma taught him and Merle in secret because Daddy hated the sound of it.

He knew that Daddy and Momma had known each other before, several times over, and each time, they'd failed to show each other that they loved each other—often ended up killing one another—and that his Momma had never not been his Momma. That thought always comforted him. That maybe she lived and breathed to take care of him. That she was his as much as he was hers.

He knew that Merle had been a fighter for some distant but grand cause, the reason why he'd been so quick to sign his soul over to the country to fight in Vietnam. Merle didn't give a shit about going to jail. Merle was tough. He could hold his own. He'd heard him bemoan the loss of his freedom, but he knew it was all a ruse, perhaps a way to help himself stifle the odd feelings of belonging that furled in his chest when he thought of fighting to help others.

He quickly learned that there was something different about this lifetime, though. Learned that it was the _last _for a lot of people. The Blooms. Momma. Merle. That nasty old man that worked at the corner store, the one that boxed him upside the head with his cane every chance he got. The crooked, lecherous preacher at his Momma's old church in town, the one Daddy would no longer allow her to attend. The kind lady at the grocery story who always snuck Momma a bag or two of sorely needed food and supplies, free of charge, smiling real pretty and shy. A host of others.

He knew because he couldn't feel the burn of their souls as brightly as others. He knew because they didn't make that map in his head any easier to see.  
Those people always made him feel drained inside.

* * *

**This wasn't supposed to happen!**

**I'd been toying around with the idea of reincarnation in the world of The Walking Dead for a while, now. I was (and still am) working on a separate project for this fandom. I got stuck on that project, and then I started this one as a little exercise to help me through some mild writer's block. I then proceeded to get carried away. This was just supposed to be a tiny little work I wrote for myself, to get myself over an annoying hurdle and maybe laugh it later. It somehow became kind of important to me, so I decided that I would share it.**

**This story is Daryl centric, but it is, at its core, about Daryl and Carol, so her point of view will soon be explored. The first three chapters, excluding this one (which is the prologue), all explore Daryl's backstory. They are all complete, and I'm almost finished with chapter four. Chapter four marks the beginning of the walkers rising, and the beginning of Daryl's relationship with Carol. Reviews and constructive criticism are both encouraged and appreciated. Tell me what you like, what you don't like, and don't be afraid to ask questions. PM me, or drop them in your review. **

**I am horrible at thinking of titles for stories, and I usually resort to using a song title or a lyric from a song as a title. I didn't want to do that with this story. I thought of Rebirth, giggled at myself at how typical it was, and after a long-winded bout of research on Latin, I settled for the term Renascentia as the one that fit the best. If you have a solid understanding of Latin and you think I used this in the wrong context, please correct me so that I can fix it!**

**Also, tell me if the line breaks show. FF doesn't seem to like my line breaks. This work is not beta read. I read over it myself about five times, but I still might I have forgotten something. If you see a glaring mistake, point it out so that I can fix it.**

**Here marks the end of my ramble. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**What do you think? Should I continue, or leave this alone?**

_"I know I am deathless. No doubt I have died myself ten thousand  
times before. I laugh at what you call dissolution, and I know the  
amplitude of time."  
_ -William Wordsworth


	2. 1

Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. I am own nothing but the plotline of this story, and a spattering of original characters.

The previous chapter has undergone slight changes. Please read it again if you have the time.

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1.

Daryl grew up first trying to tell his Momma, and then Merle, about the map in his head, about the stories of the people around him. His Momma always obliged him, and he felt that she just might have believed him. She would sit with him, stare down at him wonderingly, her eyes lit up with confusion and awe. In the later years, she'd be cradling a cigarette in one hand, maybe a bottle in the other, smoke curling in hazy swirls about her youthful face. She'd been young when she'd had Merle, barely fifteen, an ignorant little girl lost outside of Cajun Country in a place her father had convinced her was the land where dreams came true. She'd always seemed ageless to him, always looking pretty and peaceful, despite the bruises and scars marring her skin, despite charring her lungs and pickling her liver to escape the pain of being tied to his Daddy.

She'd give twinkling giggles when his face scrunched up in concentration as he tried to remember what he wanted to tell her. Stroke his hair back from his forehead and plant dry kisses along his hairline and murmur about how he was he gift from God, her own personal angel.  
And she'd always say, "Don't tell your Daddy. Don't tell Merle. Don't tell nobody." It was a mantra, he'd later realize. The words grounder her more than they did him.

("Why not?" He'd asked, once, genuinely curious.

"They won't understand,_ cher_. They'll think ya touched in the head." She'd explained simply, eyelashes fanning her cheeks as smoke billowed from her flared nostrils.)

* * *

He was nine when she died. Merle had come back from wherever it was he'd been after his dishonorable discharge. He tried to tell Merle for the first time a week after his Momma's funeral, not knowing that his brother wasn't likely to give him his full attention when he was getting lit.

"You was always fightin', Merle." He'd informed his brother abruptly, plopping down beside him on the ratty couch in the living room of their childhood house, a rickety old number their Daddy inherited from their grandmother.

"Always fightin?" Merle had replied, face puckering in confusion. Before Daryl could answer, he'd urged him to try some of the hooch his buddy had made for him.

He'd wetted his lips with it, winching at its offensive smell. When he snaked his lips out to taste it, he'd hissed and sputtered, uttering every cuss word he'd ever heard, Merle cackling good naturedly in the background. He told him to quit pussyfooting around and take a sip, so he had, because it was _Merle_, because maybe he'd be the one to take care of him now that Momma was gone—Daddy sure wasn't going to. He'd coughed and promptly spit it out, causing Merle to laugh once again, patting his back roughly.  
"Now, what the hell you meant by that, boy?"

"B'fore—'fore you was you. Merle. My brother."

And Merle had just looked at him then. Despite how much of the bad hooch he'd been guzzling after their Momma's funeral, he'd appeared strangely lucid in that moment, eyes bloodshot but focused, searching his face.

"You gone crazy since Momma died? Or are you just lit from what I gave ya?" He'd asked.

Daryl just shook his head. He remembered wincing at being reminded of their Momma's death. After the fact, he'd been strangely numb about it. He'd told himself she was back in Louisiana where she belonged, taking a break from living, and that she'd come back for him when she set herself to rights again.

(It was years later that he'd finally accept the fact that she was really gone, putting a pause on everything to struggle silently through all five stages of grief ten years too late, and then returning to the shitty life he lived, fixing other's people's shit to escape his own.)

"Huh." Was all Merle said, before taking another swig.

And that lasted for four years. For the most part, Merle never said anything. Not when he was sober, not when he was drunk. Never asked questions. Sure are as hell didn't kiss him like Momma did. Sometimes he wasn't sure if Merle even paid attention to him, but he always obliged him, pulling him close while he did whatever it was he was doing. Merle always had to be doing something with his hands or he simply wasn't okay. Merle was never content—he had what Daryl called his okay moments, when he wasn't a right mean cunt, or high, or three sheets to the wind. He was just okay.

When he was high, those were the moments when he wanted to know everything, when he laughed with him, when he asked question after question after question. Or after Daddy had taken out his grievances on Daryl and he wasn't around to take the abuse in his stead, when he as desperate for something, _anything_ to distract him from the pain.

* * *

It ended when Daryl ruined it.

Daddy had been in one of his worst moods, the moods when he would reminisce on his life with Momma, forcing Daryl to sit and listen, lest he catch a beating. He'd rambled, his meaty arm slung over his eyes, jumping confusedly through the years of their time together, sometimes unknowingly recounting memories from lives that weren't his current one. For all Daryl knew, it could have just been the drugs he was hiked up on, but he knew better. He knew that, as Marietta Dixon, she'd never run from his Daddy, had never dared to brandish a kitchen knife at him for something he'd said. She knew better. She'd learned better.

And then Daddy's speech had become venomous. He'd heaped insults upon her, upon her very name, upon her family and all that she stood for, had cursed her grave and called her a suicidal, self-centered bitch.

Daryl had just been so _angry_. He'd marched right up to where Daddy lay listless on the couch, and he'd just yelled. He hadn't said anything, just yelled in his ear and hoped it hurt.

Daddy had given him the look, that dangerous look, the same look he'd given him before he'd strangled him on his bedroom floor, stood, and marched towards the kitchen. He'd followed him, knowing that that was what he was expected to do.

Daddy had sprinkled salt all over the peeling kitchen tiles, forced him to take off his jeans, and kneel in it in his drawers. He'd pulled up a chair, sat in it, and watched him.

"You gon' stay there until you apologize for what you done said, boy."

"Ain't said nothin'," He'd hissed. And then he'd fell silent. It went unsaid that he was not going to apologize.

They'd stared at each other in silent contest, Daryl's face red from the exertion of swallowing down the pained whimpers rising in his throat, Daddy unraveling his control with his dangerous eyes.

And as they waited, he'd felt the pull. He'd struggled with it for as long as he could, but eventually, he succumbed, grateful for the release the memories bought him from the burning in his knees.

"Was it your Momma?" Daddy broke first. His blaring voice bringing him out of his revere. He continued once he was sure he had Daryl's attention.

"She the one what got you all high an' mighty, thinkin' you're better'n me? You think you better'n me? Huh?" His voice became dangerously high and wheezing when he got angry. Merle sounded just like that, all the time. When he was a little boy, he'd thought that Merle was always angry.

"_Huh?" _

And there was something about the sheer power behind his roar that had Daryl jumping, gasping as the movement further ignited the prickly fire blooming along his knees and legs.

"Say somethin'!"

So he had. Said everything he knew.

"When you first met her, Momma, before you was Will, you killed her. You walked right up to her an' you just stabbed her because you'd been watching her an' you knew that she wasn't yours an' the baby she had wasn't yours and you were mad.

"The second time you met her, she killed you, because you were gonna kill her again because the baby she had wasn't yours and you were mad. But you weren't expectin' her to know how to fight back."

"Shut up, boy!"

"Every single time you was just scared an' you were mad because you wanted her but she wasn't yours and I wasn't yours—"

"I said be quiet!"

"—and it happened over an' over an' over, you two killin' each other because you ain't have the sense to speak up—"

"You gon' regret it if you keep on, Daryl."

It was Daddy's saying his name that gave him pause. He'd worked his mouth a few times, silent, but when a smug smile began to make his way back on to his face, he'd continued, relentless.

"Thought you wanted me to say something." He'd tauntingly imitated the wheeze of his father's voice, high on the power he felt then, continuing on his tirade.

"And the one time you get her, the one time she's yours and I'm yours, the only way you can show ya love is with your fists because you're still mad and you're wicked."

_Wicked. _It'd been a word his Momma had told him to avoid (_The memory of the righteous is blessed, But the name of the wicked will rot__), _that it was the worst thing for a person to be.

"You're wicked," He'd decided, quietly. "Wicked. Wicked. Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!"

And Daddy had been shaking, trembling. His eyes were wide, his long, willowy brown hair sticking to his sweaty face. Despite all his threats, he hadn't moved an inch, and Daryl had felt so powerful. It didn't matter to him that his voice was cracking—it had been doing that a lot at the age he was—that he sounded like the crazy boy the neighbors thought he was. It was true.

After spending an intoxicating few moments physically flinching from his words, his Daddy had pulled him up by his elbows and punched him out.

He awoke to Merle running a cloth over his forehead, wet with lukewarm water.

"Tell me all about it, brother. Tell me about what he did."

So Daryl told him all about it, because it was _Merle. _It hadn't been enough to distract him. He'd complained dazedly to his brother. He hurt and Daddy was wicked and he wanted Momma back because he knew Merle just didn't understand, because he only listened to him because it was what he was supposed to do. Was it because he felt bad, because he was never there for him? Was it because of something he did?  
Merle hadn't answered him, simply bided his time tending to his injuries. He eventually got him to sleep after a while.

He'd woken him up the next morning with a rough shove, just as he was about to fall into yet another feverish dream.

"Daryl," He'd hissed, so hard that his spit, stinking of whiskey, had splattered all over his face. "Don't you ever go sayin' anything like that to Daddy ever again. And stop tellin' me about that weird shit." He added, as if in afterthought.

He hadn't seen Merle for another four years.

* * *

I'd like to preface this by giving a heartfelt thank you to my first two reviewers, **crazstiz** and **RedHeadedPixieGrunger**. I'm very glad that you're enjoying this so far.

I also want to thank those who found this story interesting enough to put on your alert lists. It's very encouraging.

Reviews, however, are the most encouraging. _Please_ take the time to review—tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what you'd like to see. Any advice and constructive criticism is strongly encouraged.

This has been read and checked for errors multiple times, but if there are still any glaring mistakes left behind, let me know so that I can fix it as soon as possible.

I can't promise a solid schedule, because I don't own a computer, but most updates should be posted on Tuesdays.

_"The memory of the righteous is blessed, But the name of the wicked will rot." _(Proverbs 10:7)

_"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter." _(The Chant of Light)


	3. 2

Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. I own nothing but the plotline of this story, and a spattering of original characters.

Warnings for strong language, violence, and death in this chapter.

* * *

2.

The second time it happened, dying, he'd been with Merle.

He'd just turned thirty, and Merle had come back to town to visit him, a damned day after his birthday, to celebrate.

Celebrating anything with Merle was a train wreck. His idea of celebrating was getting as drunk off of your ass as was physically possible, preferably with drugs nearby to spice things up a little. You could never go wrong if you had some random women there to hang off of your arm, too. So they rounded up three of Merle's friends and two eager, bright-eyed girls from town who were too young and dumb to know that hanging with the likes of them would stain the innocence their parents had suspiciously preserved in them their whole lives.

They'd ended up at some shifty tweaker's house, Daryl stoutly refusing to get high, but readily drinking, because he wanted to forget, if only for a little while, that Merle was likely to be gone in the morning, leaving nothing behind but the vague scent of acrid smoke, an ache in Daryl's chest, and a half-assed not-apology written in his best French.

The tweaker had been dazedly watching a show—_Courage the Cowardly Dog_, what a subtly twisted little program it had been—and it wasn't long before Merle was making a vulgar voiceover of the show, viciously tearing it apart from detail to obnoxiously small detail. Daryl knew right away what importance the show held to the dealer (knew that he'd felt the lingering guilt of this life being yet another fixture in the map of lives in which he hadn't been there for his little girl), but by then he'd known better than to say much about it. All of his attempts at getting Merle to shut up had failed, and he'd eventually stopped all together, losing himself in the fuzzy dizziness that consumed his jumbled thoughts with each overly large swallow of beer. While Daryl lost track of time, the man had lost his temper.

He was pulled out of his funk by the man's shouting at shooting up from his place on the couch, pushing his trembling pointer finger into Merle's face, warning him to shut the fuck up, that he didn't know anything, that he was a _right crooked motherfucker_—

It was the last thing that had Merle standing and throwing punches, and Daryl was soon throwing some around, too, because it was his job to back Merle up, no matter what. Back then, after Momma, Merle had been his reason for living.

He'd fought as hard as he could, the world a blur of slowed speech and dull pain. He would throw a punch and get two in return. The girls Merle had brought with him had shrieked in horror, cowering in the corner as he and Merle had fought against the tweaker's crew, Merle's friends trying and failing to herald the scared young women out of the door. He remembered not being able to see anything, his vision spotted ominously black. At one point, someone landed an open-handed smack to the side of his head, his ear popping from the sheer force of it. Still, he kept fighting through the sluggishness overtaking his mind. It was for Merle. It was just what he was supposed to do.

The familiar, resounding click of a heavily loaded pistol was audible even through the ringing in his ear. The sound brought the fight to a quick halt.

"I'm on _kill you_, bitch," The tweaker had seethed, cocking his head to get a better look at Daryl's face. As Daryl's vision cleared, he noticed that the man's eyes were so dramatically dilated that he wasn't been able to clearly make out the color of his irises. The room was filled with horrified and enraged shouts, Merle's voice the loudest of them all.

"Stop! You put that gun down, you crazy fuck! Put that gun down or you gon' hate it! That's my brother!"

"Do it, then," Daryl had slurred, not at all scared for his life. At that moment, he'd been ready to die. He loved Merle, but he'd realized at that moment, with a gun pressed into his head, that he had no real purpose for living. He'd been thirty years pining after people who hadn't wanted him.

If he'd known what would happen, he probably still would have felt that way.

The tweaker had been trembling before, but he went abruptly still as Daryl began to goad him.

"Do it. See if I'll be able to care when I'm dead, asswipe."

"Shut the hell up, Daryl! Do you got a death wish, boy!" one of Merle's friends had yelled at him, struggling with the sniveling young woman cradled roughly in his pockmarked arms.

"Do it, fool! You sacred now? I ain't afraid to die!"

"Daryl, shut the—"

There was an overwhelmingly loud boom. The world was black.

* * *

When he was dead, he fell.  
He felt the roar of the past in his soul as he fell.

He saw the lives of every living person to ever be forwards and in reverse and all over again, he saw it under a lens, he was them, he was no one, he was them, he was no one, he was them, he was them again and again and again.

The future rushed to meet him as the swansong of the past propelled him on a downwards spiral, slipping liquid and swift through him as if he wasn't there at all, and for a moment so short he was unsure that it ever even happened, he saw everything. He became everything.

He kept with him the memory of the first person to ever Turn.

On the day that he saw her, she had only been a year old, but he saw everything about her future before it happened, saw it in ultra-vision because he was her and everything about her was him, in that moment.

He couldn't pinpoint where she was born.

Her mother wasn't even supposed to be able to bear children, but she stubbornly carried her to term and gave her life so that her little girl could live. Her father lovingly raised her, sheltering her from the horrors of the world. He spoiled her, made sure she never wanted for anything and then some, and it never went to her head. She was sweet to everyone. She was a normal girl. She loved Jesus and flowers and animals. She loved Oreos with peanut butter and had a weakness for greasy pizzas. She liked to sing and she played guitar. She had play dates and, as she got older, sleepovers. Every day, she giggled behind her hand with her best friend about the cute boy in their class with the dimples and the pretty mint green eyes. She didn't have a mean bone in her body.

And even though she had never wronged anyone, she was the first.

It began with an unnaturally high fever. The doctors were in the dark about what exactly was ailing her. They sent her father home and committed the girl to the hospital for close monitoring, angrily cleaning and dressing the scratches the girl left on their skin while she fought against them as they pinned her down to take her temperature.

The very next day, the sickness quietly and randomly took her life. Her father sat by her death bed with his face cradled in his hands, sobbing in grief, cursing God for once again taking away the one thing that mattered to him. He didn't call for the nurse. He exhausted himself and passed out, falling into a restless sleep.

His daughter's grip on his arm awoke him a few hours later, and as he babbled on to her about the awful dream he had, holding her close to his body, she promptly bit into his neck.

She hadn't been some mystic progenitor, some patient zero, for whatever the sickness was. After she Turned, people around the world began to as well, as if something had been awakened after her light had been snuffed out. Sometimes, a cluster of them died simultaneously, and then came back to kill their loved ones. Sometimes a single person Turned and was never found, wasting away in someplace where their remains would infect others, anyways. There was no rhythm or rhyme to it, no purpose other than the spread of death. Daryl wondered where their souls went when their old bodies were still roaming the Earth.

There was something viciously unfair about that first girl's end, howver. He would never forget her for as long as he was himself.  
Her name was Myrna. She was only eleven years old.

* * *

A/N

For those of you who were waiting on this, take this moment to imagine me on my knees, apologizing profusely. Life is a whirlwind. I have no computer. I am sorry. I am kissing your boots. Please take the time to leave me your thoughts.

For those of you who are new to this, welcome aboard! Please take the time to leave me your thoughts, as well. I'm glad to have you.

Again, I have proofread this forwards and backwards several times, but there are probably still some minor errors. Point them out and I'll be all over it, pinky promises and smooches kk.

I'm not going to lie, I lost my inspiration when it comes to The Walking Dead. The last half of season four had a couple of good episodes, but mostly it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Am I the only one?

The writers are kinda losing it, yeah? Maybe? No? Okay.

If you care to know, I have been dicking around in other fandoms, particularly the Marvel fandom. At a young age, my sweet dad cultivated in me a huge love for video games, anime, manga, and (you guessed it), comic books. What with all the Marvel movies coming out lately, I've been revisiting the series I fell in love with as a child. I've just been sitting around, vibrating with excitement as I wait to see what's done with them on the big screen. The superhero movie season always begins with this month, my birth month no less, so I'm always one of the first people to just kind of drop everything and go wild. So, long story short, when I'm not busy, I've been spazzing out. I've also been returning to Harry Potter, which was one of the first fandoms I was thrust into when I first joined the fandom community. If you want to get in on either of those, Tumblr and AO3 is where it's at. I'll hold your flower.  
But! But, but but. I have picked this back up again, finished more of my pre planning, done some more writing, and hopefully, things will be back on track soon. Because guess what?

Walking Dead fandom, you rock. I love it here. It's great to be back.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Have an awesome day, and an awesome month, and an awesome summer.

P.S: My patronus is a zombie wearing a tattered old superhero suit. What's yours?


	4. 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead. I own nothing but the plotline of this story, and a spattering of original characters.

Warnings for homophobic language and a mention of suicide (and, of course, death) in this chapter.

* * *

3.

After the incident with the tweaker, he'd woken up to Merle shoveling dirt into his face as he lay stiff in a pitifully shallow grave in the backyard of Daddy's house.

Merle had threw his shovel when he sat up, coughed and held his head, roaring in pain because it _hurt_, hurt more than any pain he'd ever experienced. Merle just stared at him as he eventually calmed himself. When his screams tapered off, he'd punched Daryl square in the jaw and left him to lay in ground, dirt in his eyes and nose and mouth, his throat dry.

(His head throbbed for weeks afterwards.)

Living became a game of trying to differentiate between people's past lives, the ones they lived in the present, and the ones they could live in the future.

The future was a disgustingly, frustratingly fluid thing. It came to him flashes so brief sometimes he doubted he'd ever seen a thing, leaving a white, burning imprint on the back of his eyelids. It came to him in sounds, in hearing the bullet that would end one person's life, the breathless hello that would mark the beginning of a turbulent romance, the annoyed growl that would kick start a passionate rivalry.

The universe had a funny way of righting itself once something threw it off course;

He once saw a young boy run into town on a busy night. He'd been on punishment—Had he stared for too long at the boy at school with the endearing horse laugh and the bright golden brown eyes? Had he tried alcohol to ease the ache in his chest? Had he kissed one of the fast girls his momma was always complaining about? Had he drunkenly kissed the boy he hated himself for being attracted to, desperately breathed in his excited little giggles and hazy murmurs of affection? Was it all three? His brother had lied about the fast girls helping and the boy was angry and he needed to escape and he'd done all three—and forbidden from seeing his friends. He snuck out of his house in the middle of the knight, even though he knew better , that their town became more dangerous at night. He snuck into the local bar, bummed some drinks from the sympathetic bartender, and got cornered drunk and sorrowed by local thugs behind the building. They'd seen him, they said. Daryl could hear their voices in his head. They'd seen him and his little faggot friend. This wasn't a town for nancy boys. They'd make him sorry.

They beat him, but they didn't need to. The ringleader had a knife, and he could have ended it fast it he wanted to. Instead, he sat back, watched his cronies kick the boy while he was down.

The man was one of Merle's friends. That didn't surprise him at all.

Daryl had left work early to catch the boy in the bar. He told Merle's friend-Heath? Hunter? Hyde, he remembered-that the boy was with him and never mind what he needed him for.

(_You like 'em young, eh, Daryl?" _

_Merle was going to punch him again) _

He dragged him home with his hand tight around his ear just like his Momma used to do to him when he got cross with her. He banged on his parents' door until they came rushing to meet him. They'd thanked him profusely (the mother, who'd been one his Momma's friends, not meeting his eyes) and dragged their son into the house.

"That boy needs you now more than anything." Daryl had told his father, seriously, and for a second he wanted to punch himself because what kind of sense did that make, what difference was he making right now at all, why had he done this?  
But the father just nodded and thanked him profusely, the frazzled glint in his eyes telling Daryl that he'd been far too young to become a father in the first place.

Two weeks later, the boy killed himself. Though he wanted to, Daryl didn't attend the funeral.

He spent the day woodcarving, sobbing unashamedly. His Daddy had taken one look at him and left the house with a disgusted scoff. Merle left him shitty scotch and awkwardly patted his shoulder before leaving with his buddies, a trail of dazed laughter and the smell of cigarette smoke left in his wake. The ringleader of the thugs laughed venomously at him from his place in the bed of Daryl's truck, borrowed without his permission.

* * *

It continued. The loop was endless. He would try to right something, save a life, stall an accident, anything, and it would just happen later, far more violent and intense than what he'd seen the first time. Sometimes, Daryl hated living. He learned to close himself off, detach his emotions from going through the daily motions. It was easy. It was too easy. It was a relief. It was horrible.

Myrna's short life stuck with him. It had disturbed him. It made him very cynical about everything. He tried to ignore it, tell himself that the world was fucked up but not _that_ fucked up, that maybe the universe decided that it wanted to play a trick on him, just once, if only to see how he reacted. It wasn't long before he admitted to himself that he was being irrational.

Of course the world was _that_ fucked up. Whatever it was that made him so attuned to the lives of others had never failed him, and it never would.

* * *

A week before everything went to shit, he'd been seeing nothing but death. He closed his eyes and saw someone take their final breath. He opened his eyes to clear the image, and when he closed them again he saw them rise to kill their loved ones, stumbling from one person to the next, undeterred by anything but a bullet to the brain. He lost his Daddy to the dead (_He was wicked, so wicked, but he'd still been his Daddy and he hadn't been able to put him down_), lost Uncle Jess to the dead, lost Merle to himself.

He knew that there was no way he could have stopped all the deaths he'd seen, but couldn't help but feel like the loss of their lives was all his fault.

* * *

A/N

Rah rah day late rah rah sorry rah rah busy rah rah no computer rah rah lazy.

I have mixed feelings about this chapter. I don't know what else to say about it. Leave your thoughts, please and thank you with all the smooches on top. Again, this has been reread and edited, but there might still be mistakes that I missed. If they bother you, point them out!

In other news, as of Sunday, I am a year older. (unenthusiastic fanfare in the background)

The next chapter begins our story from Carol's point of view, and by far, has been my favorite chapter to write. I'll do my best to get it up soon.

I told you last time that I'd been dicking around elsewhere in the fandom world, and I just realized that I'm several chapters behind on all off the unfinished stories that I'd been following here! Eep! That's never a good feeling.

There's one story in particular I want to take a moment to shamelessly plug. I think it deserves more (meaningful?) reviews. I'll be honest, it's not usually my cup of tea when it comes to The Walking Dead, but it's really well-written and thought out. It's hefty, almost intimidatingly so, but I think it's worth it.

If you have the time, check out **Fear The Living** by **Jenthewarrior**.

_"Someday, Time will die, and Love will bury it."_

_-Richard Brautigan_

(For last chapter, since I forgot to type it up, apparently)

_"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself."_

_-Khalil Gibran_


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